#rivals rocket

mcu rocket

TEAMS UP:

this rocket is the most lone-wolf of the group (unless you count the universe-killer, which we don’t). he can barely stand one of himself on a good day — now he’s gotta work with six of ‘im?  worse still, each of the other rockets has some kind of characteristic or habit that either confirms his worst suspicions of himself, or shows him how much better he could be if he wasn’t such a piece of work. he leaves the other rockets to their various devices: the rocket with the beard and the rocket with the piercings immediately start fucking around with the weapons on the workbench, while the rocket in the bespoke suit glowers suspiciously at the smirking cyborg — who looks like he’s probably murdered whole planets with that laser-red eye. meanwhile, the hyperactive little shit with the fingerless gloves and plumey tail sprawls upside down on the couch with his ears brushing the floor, flipping through the dirty magazine pete had left onboard the last time he visited from terra.  (the crinkled booklet had fallen out of star-lord’s purse right on the cockpit floor. rocket had lifted it by one corner before he’d realized what it was, then dropped it like it was fuckin’ contaminated — which it probably was — and tried not to hurl. the fuck is wrong with you?! he’d demanded, his voice pitched higher than usual as he’d glared at his humie friend. watch your porn on a fuckin’ holo, like a normal pre-vert! it’s nostalgic! pete had squawked, snatching the sticky thing off the floor before rolling it up and stuffing it back in his bag, muttering something about rites of passage and the eighties. you got issues, quill, rocket had informed him flatly before stalking off to bleach his frickin’ hands.) the point is, mcu rocket isn’t lining up to make friends. as with everyone else in his life, the relationships grow slowly. haltingly. begrudgingly. eventually, he finds himself watching each of their backs, focused more on covering them during firefights over actually making any kills of his own. while all the rockets share similar skillsets, he’s the one most inclined toward shipbuilding and flight maneuvers — he’s the one that finds the open sky calls to him the most — and that means he’s the one herding his fellow-rockets back onboard after a crisis. he’s the one pushing the jump-points, cackling as he evades hull-destroying blasts and asteroids, and — well, he’s the one making sure to keep the others out of danger. he’s the one protecting them and giving them a home — all while muttering curses under his breath, and hoping the cruel universe doesn’t take one of ‘em and break his stupid fuckin’ heart.

ON YOU:

so... what happens when this hodgepodge team of inter-universal misfits finally gets you back, safe and sound underneath their collective claws? and what’s a lone-wolf rocket to do? at first — nothing at all. this rocket is probably the slowest to hit on you once they get you back. he watches as the others shoot their shots. they’re all frickin’ annoying, frankly. …but endearing too. which is to say that he’s playing the voyeur for a long time: watching with lava-hot, molten-ruby eyes as the others smirk at you, fawn over you, tease you and taunt you. touch you. each and every flirtation knots his belly and stiffens his dick, till he finds himself stealing moments with you whenever he can: luring you away from the others so he can murmur double entendres in your ear that are just this side of filthy. he never does it in front of the others — never lets his claws linger behind your knee or up the back of your thighs, not when the other rockets are around — but he takes whatever chance he can get when he’s got you alone. when things finally go down — on you, so to speak — rocket continues watching long past the time when most of the others have joined in. you can feel his stare like a physical touch, leaving shiny scorch-marks on your skin in their wake. eventually, he decides he doesn’t mind watching, either. he leans against the open hatch of the cargo bay that has been turned into a giant bunk, and he’s the picture of insolent laziness — if only you weren’t so skilled at reading his tells. but even through teary lashes and dazed eyes, you can read the tense curl of his claws over the edge of his pockets — the flick of his tail, the alert angle of his ears as he tries to soak up every murmur and moan you make. truth is, his abdomen is so tight that his claws cut into his palms through the armored-fabric of his pockets, and he’s got one canine dug so deep into his tongue he can taste blood. there’s power in this, too, though: in waiting. in watching you choke and drown in pleasure — in watching so many of his other-selves make you wriggle and writhe and whine and cry, again and again and again and again.  in knowing that once you’re finally done — once you feel like you can’t possibly survive another brush of even the lightest, most delicate fingers — he’s going to shuffle you away into the shadows of his own bunk, sloppy and mewing, and make you come all over again. just for him.

eidos rocket

TEAMS UP:

this rocket is nowhere near the isolationist that mcu rocket is. don’t get me wrong; he’s still skeptical. but in general, he’s always been more receptive to his fellow non-biologicals, and it doesn’t take more than a microsecond for him to figure all these other chogs prob’ly got backstories similar to his own. he’s curious: what’re they like? do they know how to appreciate a good explosion? are their peter quills as annoying as his?  the answers are correspondingly: 

they’re all handsome bastards (though none as handsome as himself, of course),

they all love to blow shit up (but he’s definitely the best at it, which means he’ll serve as the team’s chief bomb technician), and 

of course not. no other pete could be as flarkin’ obnoxious as his pete.

always sarcastic but — for once — pretty damn satisfied, this rocket settles pretty immediately and comfortably into the idea of a team-up. his relationship with his own guardians or gardeners or whatever may be pretty fraught, just ‘cause they all got weird baggage — but eidos rocket was bioengineered to be part of a unit. no, a legion, really. and this group reminds him a lot of his old fellow supersoldiers — even if they’re invariably more mouthy.  the dude with the piercings is solid, eidos rocket thinks. that guy’s got a love of firearms which seems equal to his own love of explosives. he’s pretty sure that together, they’re gonna develop the most terrible, beautiful armory in the known flarkin’ universe and beyond. conversely, the rocket in the suit is a little full of himself, but maybe he deserves to be ‘cause he always seems to know his shit. and the short rocket — the little guy with the duct tape and the anxiety disorder — reminds eidos rocket most of his old siblings in the labs. occasionally, he finds himself wondering if he could calm the little guy down with one of his old tall-tales of the hero of halfworld.  the point is, even if this rocket won’t say it out loud — even if he just continues to be his usual leering, sarcastic self on the surface — this is the team he’s been waiting for. he feels it in his duranium-plated bones. he feels it in all his ports and servos and implants. so despite the fact that he’s the bomb tech, he’s determined not to do what he usually does with — anything.  he ain’t gonna blow it up. 

ON YOU:

yeah, eidos rocket is a real teamplayer. which is to say, he’s the one who makes the most of having a whole arsenal of his other selves hangin’ around to make you feel good. one of his favorite positions is sprawled lazily on his back with his hands behind his head while you ride him. it’s the best flarkin’ view in the house, as far as he’s concerned, and he loves makin’ you do all the work. especially if you brace yourself with one humie hand on his chest, and the other pulling pleadingly at his beard.  and when there’s another rocket there to fill your mouth, and another toying with your nipples — well, it’s his new favorite kind of group-project. he’d never realized he had such a fetish for stuffing a partner so full before, but he loves to see you on top of him, glutted with cum, leaking from every overstuffed hole.  c’mon, sweetheart, he’ll croon as the rocket with the fingerless gloves slides thick, nimble digits into you — right beside eidos rocket’s own crooked cock. i’ve seen you stretched out on that cranky mech-rocket's cannon before.  so you can definitely take a second dick in this pretty hole of yours.  prob’ly even a third.

cartoon rocket

TEAMS UP:

maybe you could guess this, or maybe you wouldn’t — but cartoon rocket is the glue of the group.  or perhaps the duct tape. look. yes, he’s obnoxious and shrill. and yes, he wears his anxiety right on his chest like a flarkin’ target. but something about him seems to remind all the other rockets of themselves at their most vulnerable. and while they each find it some level of annoying — well, except for skottie-young-rocket, who’s simply entertained by it all — there’s always been a part of each rocket that is drawn to vulnerability.  even when it’s a reflection of themselves.  it doesn’t hurt that cartoon rocket is also the one who patches everybody up after every mission — usually cussing the whole time. it’s flark this and flark that, and hold still while i laser-stitch this d’ast wound, ya krutackin’ moron. he’s even repaired some of the universe-killer’s prosthetics from time to time, when the giant jackass couldn’t easily reach the short-circuited tech himself.  really, it’s no wonder that this guy is holding the whole crew of misfits together on their journey to find you. because — just like each rocket has always been drawn to vulnerability —  each rocket is also a little soft for someone who takes care of him. 

ON YOU:

this rocket doesn’t engage in a whole lot of the x-rated activities, but he is the resident aftercare-specialist and chief cuddler. he’s always there when you need him, muttering under his breath about clumsy flarkin’ idiots while he kneads salve into your bruises or bandages up your bites, then lets you wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his flank while he massages your wrists or your temples. he strokes your brow with a gentleness that always seems at odds with his gruff, annoyed mumbles, and when he squeezes you back, it’s just as tight as your own embrace. he sleeps with you as often as you let him (which is all the time): curled around you, letting you treat him like a plushy stuffed toy whenever you want — and treating you like one even more often, mumbling fervent prayers and unintelligible gratitudes into your neck.  but as much as cartoon rocket might be the medic on board — or as close to one as this crew gets — he’s got no patience for any perceived carelessness the others show toward you. he’s constantly lecturing eidos rocket about praising you more, and snarling at skottie-young rocket to be more attentive to your well-being. he’s had a number of remarkably quiet conversations with both rivals rocket and mcu rocket, both of whom have discreetly sought him out to ask how to make sure they take care of you a little better.  once, you even stumble across him cussing out universe-killer rocket, as if he’s got no fear for his own life. luckily, you’re good at caring too, and you manage to scoop him up into a cuddle and cart him away before the universe-killer does anything more than arch a dangerous brow.  and cartoon rocket, for his part, is too smitten to try to fight you off when you wrap your arms around him and bundle him away with a few well-placed smooches between his ears. 

universe-killer rocket

TEAMS UP:

the important thing to remember is that universe-killer rocket is always primarily looking out for his own interests. the parts of him that you might recognize as fundamentally rocket are buried deep, and he’s ultimately unreliable, greedy, and manipulative.  but if it just so happens that his goals align with those of the other rockets — as it does in this mission to find and secure you, if only for his own ends — then he can pretend to play nice for a while.  even so, he’s a grinning, condescending, dangerous bastard, and they all know it — though they only seem to respond with varying degrees of wariness and mockery. still, he makes an excellent tank for the team when he wants to: damn-near indestructible thanks to his vibra-duranium armor and prosthetics, with at least one limb capable of turning into a laser cannon that blows up a lot more than a few measly moons. as much of an asshole as he is, universe-killer rocket also recognizes the benefits of having a clan (not to mention that secretly, some nearly-unrecognizable part of himself misses his own hellspawn crew). so he’s plucked up a couple of the more-runty versions of himself in a few difficult situations, deftly removing them from the paths of incoming ion blasts and plasma shots. blocked one or two of ‘em from grav-shrapnel and thermal bloom.   of course, he doesn’t hesitate to point out that they owe him for the favors. not that he needs anything from them, mind you.  he just likes to remind them that they’re in his fuckin’ debt. 

ON YOU:

it’s a narrow miracle that this rocket doesn’t grab you, kill the rest of the rockets, and sweep you off into deep space to be his pet. after all, that had been his original plan. but you'd seemed so charmed by the other rockets — so smitten and sweetened by them. he’d almost done it anyway. more than once, he’d been tempted — by the very happiness they seemed to bring into your eyes.  nothing has the right to make you that happy unless it’s by his permission.  fortunately for both them and you, something has always stayed his hand at the very last microsecond — some instinctive knowledge that if he kills these fuckers, he’ll never get the parts of you he wants most. still, he’s a predictably jealous owner. transparent about it, too. he’ll take over any scene he’s a part of, brushing aside his counterparts as he pushes your few boundaries relentlessly — at least, until one of the other rockets snarls a warning.  it’s not that they intimidate him — not even close. but despite his inclinations, universe-killer rocket  is too cunning to kick his favored humie’s tamed companions out of bed.  instead, he pretends to back off: baring his teeth at them in a toothy, dangerous grin — snickering at their concerns, raising his palms in the kind of exaggerated surrender that none of them mistakes for authentic. no — they already know he’s gonna use you later, pretty much however he wants: playing with you while you sleep, scooping the other rockets’ spend out of you in a mockery of gentleness — at least till he fucks you awake. by the time you open your eyes, you’ll already be screaming and creaming, weeping with his mechanical hand wrapped ‘round your throat and at least one brutal orgasm tearing its way out of your dreams. then he’ll plug you up after he fills you with cum, stoppering your sweet little hole so none of his more pathetic counterparts can get inside.  and notably, you let him — in fact, you almost seem to crave it — which is probably the only reason the other rockets haven’t tried to slaughter him yet.  he chuckles at the thought, thumbing the bitemark he carved into your asscheek, right overtop the hickey left behind by one of the others.  yeah, you’re still his little humie pet.  so it doesn’t bother him too much to let you keep a few pets of your own.

rivals rocket

TEAMS UP:

like his eidos counterpart, rivals rocket knows how to appreciate being part of a crew. he works surprisingly-well with others, and it doesn’t take long to settle into his role with the rest of the group. after all, he’s the most highly-adaptive of the rockets, ready to switch things up whenever the situation calls for it. on the surface, he might be the firearms-specialist of the crew, but he makes more than a simple artillery: his tech not only deals damage but also generates armor, shields, and medical-grade bio-repair energy.  point is, he’s a guy of diverse talents. especially when it comes to the tech he can create with his own two hands.  he’s also the guy who makes everything into a competition — in a fun way, of course. he keeps a holoprojection running in the commons bay: who’s got the most KOs? the most final hits? the most assists? who can drink the most cans of blubber ale before he passes out? who can dismantle and reassemble a laser-rifle the fastest? hit the most targets dead-center, all in a row?  the competitions are surprisingly good-natured, and they keep the rest of the crew’s spirits up while they search for you — especially when he begins floating ideas of all the ways they can compete once you’re back in their grasp. who can make you smile the most? who can earn the most kisses? who can make you come the hardest?

ON YOU:

that competitive energy doesn’t wane, my friend. not even a little. and while the scoreboard has this rocket at the top of the list in a few different areas, the one he’s proudest of pertains to his oral technique. when it comes to using his mouth, he’s the one who can make you come the quickest and hardest — and the one who can keep you on edge the longest. it’s just that he’s fuckin’ addicted to the way you taste — which means it’s been a delight to learn exactly the way you liked to be licked and sucked and nibbled on, and to make sure his numbers keep going up, up, up, up. that glossy-cool stud in his tongue doesn’t hurt, either. nor the way he lets you boss him around, with your fingers wrapped around his ears or fisted in the flop of fur atop his head. sure, he likes being in control, but he's just as happy to serve you with his tongue and teeth, baby. of course, as the most diverse technician on board, rivals rocket doesn’t limit himself to just using his mouth. and while he appreciates having a whole arsenal of teammates to take care of you and wear you out — why not enhance things further? he’s been itching to make some new toys, after all — toys which don’t focus on blowing things up or armoring his teammates for once. toys which are… purely recreational. and if they happen to be best-suited for use on you, none of his counterparts are complaining.

comics rocket (ewing, et al.)

TEAMS UP:

it’s true that all rockets are instinctive tacticians. however, it’s also true that they’re also all absolute chaos muppets. and while this rocket is included in those numbers, he’s probably the best-suited to wrangle the rest of them.  meet your resident strategist. in any other situation, he might not care about the fact that he’s clearly meant to be the so-called leader of a pack of frutackin’ losers. he’d leave ‘em to their own devices and keep his eyes on the prize. but in this case, the prize is you — and as much as he hates to admit it, his highly-refined intuition is telling him that the best way to secure you is by workin’ with the rest of these grizmods. so he sucks it up, and focuses on isolating each rocket’s particular strengths and weaknesses, leveraging them into a more-or-less seamless unit.  he’s pretty sure he can tolerate ‘em as long as he’s the one calling the shots. at first, he just tries to shove them in the general direction of opportunity and hopes that they’ll make the most of it. after all, he’s not generally great at manipulation, but he also knows that not one of these fuckers is good at accepting direction, himself included. it seems to work well enough for a while: mcu rocket gravitates toward the cockpit, and eidos rocket toward the bombs. cartoon rocket is fussing around in the infirmary when he’s not duct-taping random imagined vulnerabilities in the ship’s hull. even skottie-young-rocket seems to have found something to occupy his attention.  but after the first few skirmishes they come across — everyone doing their own thing, getting in each others’ way — he realizes they need more than twelve percent of a plan before they head into their next battle.  so he starts strategizing according to their strengths, and when he tells them he’s got something in mind — well, he’s a little surprised that they’re willing to listen. not without plenty of snide flarkin’ commentary, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything else. he sneers and snarks back, giving as good as he gets. but in the end, he’s still the one calling the shots — and they let him. in fact — he realizes later — the squabbles and resistance were probably just for show. if they’ve all fallen into some sort of natural role, maybe his is as the de facto captain in a crew full of captains. or at least, it will be unless they decide he sucks at his job. that seems highly unlikely, though, seeing how they gloat and grin after their next successful firefight. every role he’d picked for them had seemed not only perfectly-suited, but satisfying. hell, even universe-killer rocket had seemed to get some sorta sick glee out of his job being their tank. okay, maybe comics rocket shouldn’t judge. all the rockets are equally sick in their own special ways.  including himself. 

ON YOU:

speaking of sick— look, true to form, this rocket likes being in control of pretty much everything around him. so it’s only natural that he rolls that director position right into the bedroom — or in this case, one of the cargo bays, which they’ve collectively transformed into a giant bunk.  that was his doing, by the way. making sure you had a big enough space to roll around and sleep with all of ‘em, including himself.  strategy in action. he’s also the one who’d insisted that they at least try to wine-and-dine you. most of his counterparts tend to stockpile their cash, and as a pack of well-known heroes-for-hire — well, mostly heroes — there are always opportunities to earn more money.  which means there are plenty of credits available to take you to luxury beach-planets and fancy restaurants. to really show you that they can give you the finer things just as often as they give you divebars and engine grease and near-death-experiences.  look, he’s a flarkin’ pragmatist, okay? and he doesn’t hate having access to top-shelf liquor himself every once in a while.  all that’s just window-dressing, though. his need for control runs deep.  he. calls. the shots.  not every time, of course — but often enough. he rationalizes that it’s simply because he knows — knows exactly which rocket is best with his mouth, and which cock you prefer to suck on for comfort versus which one you like best when it’s fucking your throat. he knows which toys should be applied where and when and at what pressure and speed, and he knows which voice saying which words are going to wind you up worse. he knows exactly who should fuck your ass depending on the mood you’re in, and how hard you need your nipples pinched, and the best way to remind you of which eyes are watching you get railed. he knows how many hands you need on you in any given moment, and which part of your body is most desperate for a tickle from one of the tails. he knows when you should be allowed to come — if at all — and when you should be pushed to orgasm till you pass out. the other rockets heckle him for it, of course. that pierced guy refers to him as the dictator on a regular basis, while his skottie-young counterpart cackles and calls him daddy every chance he gets. mcu rocket rolls his eyes and mutters something about frickin’ fascists every time comics rocket sprawls lazily in the old captain’s chair installed in the corner of your cargo-bay-bunk: thighs wide, eyes half-hooded as he smirks— but not one of them tries to usurp him.  because he’s always, always right. 

comics rocket (skottie young)

TEAMS UP:

you might expect that universe-killer rocket is the reckless berserker of the crew, but you’d be wrong. say hello to skottie young rocket: cackling while he blows through walls and hulls with nothing but a twenty-barrel homebrew plasma-cannon and a maniacal grin.  your confusion is understandable, of course. you probably think of berserkers as fighting from a place of fury, while this rocket’s recklessness and wanton destruction stem solely from his love for all things that go blam. of all the rockets, he’s the most likely to get caught up in bomb-lust: distracted by the scent of fire and fuel, blowing shit up just to see what happens. don’t forget: this is the guy who became a fucking despot just to fuck with his best friend’s birthday plans. he’s goddamn demonic, and everybody in the new crew knows it. relatedly, this rocket is the least likely to stick to a script — always opting for whatever seems like it might be the most fun in the moment. his counterparts have basically given up on him at this point. these days, before a fight, the rocket in the bespoke suit (daddy, as this rocket likes to call him, solely mostly to get under his skin) only sighs and tells him that he’s in charge of creating a distraction before leaving him to sort out his next stroke of creative genius on his own.  and sure, sometimes that distraction ends up killing all the bad guys in a single swoop — but it often nearly takes a rocket out too. plus — thrice now — they’ve lost a payload as a result of skottie young rocket’s  impulsivity: accidentally jettisoning a tanker full of creds into a black hole on one occasion, and then setting two separate lux-crystal payouts on fire.  of course, he’s always real sad about it afterward: ears downturned, a miserable hangdog expression on his face, shiny crimson eyes wide and forlorn. tail tucked between his legs in grief. don’t worry, though. while other rockets will be furious for hours or even rotations — and annoyed for even longer — skottie young rocket has usually moved on to the next thing in under two minutes.  too many other things to hyperfixate on, you know? rather than dwelling on his failures, he’ll spend days buried in the ship’s hull whenever mcu rocket lets him, or hours building some new gun that has all the other rockets staring at it in disbelief till someone mutters fuckin’ cartoon logic and they give up trying to figure it out. plus, there's money to daydream about. and booze. and heists. and fancy ships. and artillery. and wrestling. even so, this mission — to get you back — has held his attention longer than anything else he can think of. ever.

ON YOU:

if there’s one thing that this guy — the most unpredictable rocket — can actually be consistent on, it’s that he’s an unhinged brat. and yeah, that energy carries right into the bedroom.  he’s constantly teasing you, making fun of you — pinching you while purring degradations in your ear in a way that makes your toes curl — only to turn around with a wink and demand some punishment of his own. you wanna tie him up, tug on his tail, tell him what a filthy guy he is? hell, he’s game. it’s not like he couldn’t get outta any restraints you put on him in two seconds flat, anyway.  it’s also worth noting that this rocket is almost as interested in his other selves as he is in you. handsome fuckers, the whole lot of ‘em. and as the rocket who has been the most aware of his singular condition and aloneness in the universe, he’s more than a little curious. he’s making suggestive comments to other rockets every chance he gets — copping feels whenever the whim takes him. it’s hard not to when there are so many guys sharing a bunk, after all.  and to his — and your — pleasant surprise, a few of the other rockets are open to more than just tolerating  his advances. after all, eidos rocket is always up for a good, self-indulgent time. rivals rocket, too.  and could there be anything more self-indulgent than sex with, well, himself? besides, it’s not like it’s cheating if they’re all other versions of themselves, right? not when they’re all here for you in the first place. and not when you seem sooo into it. of course, both his interest in his other selves and his extreme brattiness are only manifestations of that larger, more overwhelming baseline personality trait we associated with skottie young rocket from earlier: his unpredictability.  this rocket loves you. and he treats you like it most nights: murmuring his reverent adorations, showering you with light touches and affection. letting you do whatever you want to him. unfortunately, he’ll also tie you up and abandon you the very next morning: restraining you, dragging you behind a bulwark in an abandoned corridor where he's ever-so-thoughtfully left some soft pillows to keep you comfy, and then stuffing a vibrating dildo inside you — smirking while he strides away with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. he’ll leave you alone to suffer for god-knows-how-long before finally hinting to another rocket that he’s left them a pretty little fucktoy somewhere. but don’t worry. while you might be dazed and drooling and terrified that he forgot about you, he’d never.   you’re on his mind constantly:  his favorite little hyperfixation. 

mcu rocket

FALLING: rocket can see from day one that you’re attractive. he ain’t a frickin’ moron. you’ve got the kind of eyes that would make ‘most anybody melt. not to mention the way you smell like something fresh and warm: sugar and sunlight and a little salt, all at once. a summer sunset over an ocean beach, maybe — on one of those fancy resort-planets he’s never actually been to.  yeah. he ain’t stupid. which is why he also doesn’t let himself dwell on it. if he does, he might start thinking about other things. like how he bets you’d feel perfect under his palms. like how you’d sound if he explored every dimpled inch of you.  unfortunately for everyone involved, this rocket is probably the most resistant to acknowledging soft feelings — either yours or his. in short: you’ve got your work cut out for you, babe. if you’re feeling brave, you can go ahead and try to flirt a little. there’s an eighty percent chance that this particular rocket won’t recognize what you’re doing — and on the twenty that he does, he’ll be convinced you’re making fun of him. once you can finally persuade him that you’re genuine, he’ll assume you just wanna knock jet-boots a few times, ‘till you get the weird temporary fetish for exotic scumbags out of your system.  it’s up to you to be clever, now. and cautious. and kind. a little sly, and a whole-lot patient. Just keep finding your way into his bunk, each time bringing a bouquet of a dozen reassurances that you can both just have fun together, and it doesn’t need to be anything serious.  whisper the words into his fur enough, and maybe you’ll both believe them.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: remember that whole “time + trust” thing? this rocket is going to require all your grace, even when knocking jet-boots turns into can’t sleep without you. maybe especially then.  because while it might feel like this rocket doesn’t trust you, the truth is, he doesn’t trust himself. believing in the high evolutionary did a number on him, and while rocket might be able to build a semi-reliable spacecraft out of a match, some string, and a soda can, he’s not sure he can recognize a person who intends to do harm. which is why he treats everyone like they intend to do harm. it’s a sorta preemptive strike, or whatever. best defense is a good frickin’ offense. blah blah blah, insert some other weird humie idiom he learned from pete here.  so when he realizes he misses you while you’re separated on different missions — well, there’s gonna be some explosions. or implosions. or a little self-sabotage. at first he’ll growl and snarl and try to convince himself that he only misses you for your warm humie body and the sounds you make when he’s wringing orgasms from it: for your blunt teeth and your sea-salt and summer-sugar scent — for your lips, so much fuller and plumper than his. for the novel view of your ass, unobstructed by clothing or tail. he ignores the sickening hollow in his gut that suspects he’s a dirty frickin’ liar, till it cramps so bad that he has to admit he misses you for more than all that. he misses the way you sing along — badly — to quill’s music, and the way your eyes sparkle when you smile, and how your fingers curl and claw through his fur. he misses the way you talk to groot, and your terrible sense of humor, and your awkwardness when you get embarrassed. he misses your presence, and the quiet way you listen to him, your consistency and your patience, and the way you seek out his thoughts like each one is worth more than an anulax battery. hell, he even misses the way you get cranky and scowly and grumpy when he says stupid shit, or when he keeps you up too late in the sleepshift.  which means that by the time you get back, he’s spoiling for a fight. buckle in, babe. this rocket’s  bound to be an a-hole — more than once, probably. but whether your response is to cry, or argue back, or give him the coldest shoulder this side of the galaxy — well. these fights are just gonna make him miss you more than he already did. plus, seeing you hurt because of his insecurities has a way of chewing him up way worse than any punishment you could possibly mete out.  he’s gonna make it up to you, he tells himself. and not with some stupid, grandiose gesture, either — no matter what pete says. you won’t be getting twenty spartaxian roses from this rocket (and if he gives you a fancy new gun, it ain’t in lieu of an apology — it’s just because he wants to make sure you’re safe). he’s not suddenly trying to sweep you off your feet, or shower you in a bunch of sappy nonsense. nah. he’s gonna do the frickin’ work, and fix his own shit. so you don’t have to.

eidos rocket

FALLING: babe, i’m so sorry to say that this rocket barely clocks you at first. it’s not your fault. you’re just another flarkin’ biological on his ship, causing problems and taking up oxygen. he’s too focused on building bombs to be bothered with you — other than to tell you to keep your fingers to yourself if you wanna keep ‘em at all. plus, when it comes to — er, romance — his eye tends to be drawn to flashier lifeforms: dancers in cheap dazzling sequins, babes with a lot of skin or scales or feathers showing. come-hither smiles that can beckon from all the way across a crowded dirty dive-bar in the coldest reaches of the universe. your comparatively-timid attempts at flirtation will likely be returned with eyerolls — if rocket notices them at all.  try not to be too disheartened. this guy gets hit on in every gambling den and darkened alley he comes across. he’s going out on dates every time the milano docks on some greasy space station for more than a rotation or two. he’s disappearing for sleepshifts and coming back midway through breakfast with a sway in his lush plush tail and a smirk painting his mouth. you never had a chance, babe. at least not that way. not yet. look, it might sound cliché, but you’ve gotta just be yourself. at some point, he’ll start glancing at you with more speculation than cynicism in his eyes. And it won’t be because of anything you’ve done, either — not directly. it’s just that groot talks about you. incessantly. and rocket’s used to the flora colossus being overly-affectionate with every d’ast biological he comes across, but he’s not used to the sharp, focused intensity of groot’s fascination when it comes to you. the big guy’s always telling stories: from the time you were struggling to learn how to aim the laser cannon because you weren’t used to adjusting for thermal bloom, to some song you were singing while you helped him prune some of the excess growth on his head, right down to  yesterday when you knocked over the salt at dinner and made fun of yourself.  it’s exposure, rocket tells himself when he finds his eyes following you through the cockpit — when the snarky comments that always seem to slide off your shoulders like silk skew instead into dirty, flirty little remarks. yeah. it’s exposure, and forced proximity. he’s been hearing about you too much, so of course it’s got him curious, and remembering all the times you might’ve said something cute to him back in the early days. he suspects the novelty of your presence will wear off once he gets used to you.  spoiler — it doesn’t.  probably because groot isn’t wrong — you really are so flarkin’ sweet with the big guy. chattering at the flora colossus, listening even when you can’t understand him. holding his hand. watching his back. protecting him in a fight, or standing up for him when quill hatches some stupid plan that would put him at risk.  look, rocket tries to keep an eye on groot, but he can’t be there all the time — and he’s sorta grudgingly grateful that somebody else is looking out for the flora colossus too, because nobody’s as gentle and kind and softhearted as groot is. though maybe you’re pulling up in a close second.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: in the end, what will win this rocket over — well, the rest of the way — isn’t anything you could have prepared or planned for. see, this rocket dreams, even more than any of the others: about the sensory deprivation tanks, about the spinal control units. about rote memory exercises that unspool like an endless purgatory while he sleeps, and the people he loves sacrificing themselves again and again.  the nightmares are nothing new. the universe is a cold flarkin’ place, and — in spite of the abundance of one- and two-night-stands — this poor rocket has gotten used to dealing with it on his own. he’s never really considered any other option. not since tella. and he’s certainly never considered what it might be like to stumble out of his bunk, broad-shouldered and ash-mouthed, shirtless and combing absently through his beard with shaky claws like he’s trying to rake his nightmares out of his fur — not while you’re on board. he’ll be busy being preoccupied with his leftover hell — grateful he wasn’t off-ship in somebody else’s bed when it woke him. he’ll swagger slowly through the corridors of a sleepy milano and into the central bay, forcing himself to focus on fantasies of building a new kind of grenade. he’s prob’ly gonna sit up all night, distracting himself with its creation. at this rate, he’ll have it done before the first wakeshift even hits— —which is about when he stumbles right into you, draped in stars and shadows and insomnia, prettier than any sequined dancer. you, round-eyed and startled, with concern carved into your moonlit brow. your head will tilt. your eyes will squint. your lips will purse, thoughtful and worried, and he’ll know that you’re seeing right through him. he’ll stare back, slack-jawed and horrified, and hoping against hope that you won’t needle him for more information than he’s ready to share. but you won’t. hey, you’ll say instead — the word slow and measured as it filters into the long lingering silence. your bare humie-toes, rounded and clawless, will twitch as you curl yourself onto the couch, making space for him in the shadows — adjusting the blanket so there’s room for him at the other end, if he wants. yeah, sure, there’s a whole cold universe all around you both — but here you are, offering him a little bit of your warmth, with no demand for him to give back anything at all.  wanna sit with me?

cartoon rocket

FALLING: so many rockets have a praise kink, but this guy’s right at the tippy-top of the list, with no krutackin’ shame (and good for him!).  the first time you arch an eyebrow and tell him how impressed you are by his technical brilliance or his latest gun or his cool idea, he gets a weird little flutter behind his mutated breastbone. look, he’d like to say that he knows he’s a d’ast genius, but the truth is, this rocket always feels like he’s playing catch-up to a ship that keeps hurtling through the cosmos, just a little faster than anything he can make. even though he thinks his weapons are powerful, unique works of art, he can’t help but wonder if anyone notices but him.  once he realizes that you notice too, he’s going to try to keep you in hearing-range all the time. with a flimsy sort of nonchalance that you can see right through, he’ll offer up every bit of tech and each new invention for your praise and admiration. and while the number of fresh firearms and bombs will never seem to diminish, strange new attempts will be littered in like confetti — things you’d mentioned once or twice, wistfully, without any intention at all. a lava lamp. a waffle-iron. an icecream-maker.  something like a vcr, after you find that bundle of old terran vhs tapes on that junker planet. (he‘ll later sob through the entire duration of the secret of nimh, but he’ll think the heartache is worth it if you let him curl up against your warm flank and wrap a soothing arm around his shoulders, scritching gently at his ears).  is he falling in love? sure. is he bothered by it? not at all. unlike most rockets, he’s too blissed-out to be properly perturbed.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: picture this (because afterward, rocket often will): you’re caught in some catastrophe or another. a battle, either planetside or in the stars. a leak in the O2-generator, or loss of hull-integrity. something that renders drax’s brawn and gamora’s battle-strategy useless — and flark knows what quill’s rambling about. rocket’s voice has gone shrill as he frantically tries to piece together a solution. after all, he’s the only krutackin’ brain outta the original group. he’s supposed to know how to come in out of the blue with a solution when the rest of these suckers can’t figure it out. but then you speak up: cool. calm. collected. you ask a few questions and rocket can see the shape of your plan forming in his head even as your voice ripples through the air.  it all hinges on him, you say. him and a little bit of his brilliance, his ability to create. in no time, he’s hurling out orders, getting the rest of the idiots in position to make your genius-scheme work, then executing his own role with an exuberant cackle — pleased to play such a major part. the day is saved, because of your quick thinking, your calm, cool clarity — and your ability to see what he is capable of. later that night, when you get the others to toast his genius with stolen bottles of fizzy solberry-juice, all he’ll be able to do is stare at you with big, worshipful eyes. move over, ja kyee lrurt. rocket will always admire her, but there’s only room in his heart for one beautiful, brilliant baldbody at a time.  and ja kyee never called him a genius while scritching his ears.

universe-killer rocket

FALLING: look, my friend. i hate to break it to you, but universe-killer rocket doesn’t fall. oh, he’s fascinated by you. it doesn’t take long for him to get there at all. hell, there’s almost no build-up whatsoever. the first time he watches you persist in the face of cruelty — perhaps at the hands of the universe, or some stranger, or his own hellspawn-crew — he finds a bitterly bemused smirk twisting up one side of his mouth. just what else can you survive? it only takes the two of you crossing paths once or twice before he decides he should just keep you — for however long you can last, anyway. maybe you’re lucky, and you have some tangible skill or advantageous information that could be useful to him. at least that way, you might serve in a role that his hellspawn will treat with some respect. but if you’re just the soft, pretty baldbody who the universe-killer keeps collared for his own amusement—? well, then life will be a lot harder. for a lot longer.  either way, the longer this rocket keeps you — the longer you survive — the more he craves your presence. that resilience of yours — it glistens like gunmetal. like the hull of a silver ship, protecting your fragile human heart from the cold sucking wound of space. maybe you’re the type to become as sharp-edged as he is (you could never be as sharp-edged as he is); maybe you bite back when he’s vicious. maybe survival has made you grim and distant, or soft and pliant. maybe you’ve decided to try and create some kindness in a deeply-unkind cosmos. it doesn’t matter. as long as you keep being somehow, relentlessly you, he’ll want to keep you for his entertainment.  at some point, you’ll come to understand. this rocket is so fascinated by you because there isn’t anything left of him at all. not because of his prosthetics, of course. no — like theseus’ ship, he has replaced every whisper of his naive, gentle youth with a faster and stronger bite, with longer and sharper claws, with bigger and bleaker canons. there isn’t anything of his softer self left, and most days, he takes a sort of fucked-up pleasure in that. but here you are — unbelievably, perplexingly, amusingly whole — and sometimes when he’s high on wundagorish everbloom, he thinks he can stare right into that flawless star-bright core of yours.  you fucking burn him.  but then, this rocket has learned long ago to crave what hurts him — to demand more of it. and more of it. and more.  and when it comes to you, he does. want. more.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: i don’t think this rocket realizes how much he wants more of you, though — not until something happens to threaten his ownership. some idiot crew of sakaaran smugglers and slavers, perhaps — crossing paths with him on a random planet he’s slated for demolition. thinking they can raid his ship without realizing who he is. it’s rare for his crew to be confronted by other spacefarers at all — but for the transgressors to survive long enough to leave? unheard of.  but this time, one of the lucky — or perhaps unlucky — jackasses manages to snatch you as a hostage.  rocket holds up one mechanical claw to his crew, signaling them to fall back as the sakaarans toss you around like a ragdoll. he watches through silent, narrowed eyes while you fight them. but you’re no match for a dedicated crew of slavers, and rocket stares with a faint curl to his lip when they hold you steady and use a hyperlaser to cut off your collar. apparently, sakaarans are smart enough to recognize that there’s probably a tracker embedded in it, but not smart enough to realize that nicking your flawless neck has earned them far worse than a death sentence. when you wince and hiss and a thread of thin smoke rises from the burn, this rocket just smiles with the same deadly amusement as he had when the collar had first closed around your perfect throat. his singular prosthetic eye glows reality-stone-red when the smugglers take off: as bloody and bright as a wartime promise. it doesn’t take long for the hellspawn-crew to get you back. the sakaaran vessel is left a smoldering, collapsing husk of ruin: a smudge against the skies, one of the many ghost-ships that this rocket has left scattered throughout the universe like confetti and shrapnel. any future scavengers will flee the wreckage before they’ve even truly glanced inside — overwhelmed by a lingering dread too thick and heavy for even the most hardened ravager to stomach. when rocket gets you back under his cybernetically-enhanced hands, he doesn’t bother to take you back to the captains’ quarters. he pulls you onto the lowered ledge built into the captain’s seat: a little addition made specially for you, so he can keep you wedged between his thighs when he wants. he tilts your head this way and that: studying the burn on your neck, patting your disheveled hair or tear-salted cheek with a smirk. you shift against the metal plating of his armored prosthetics, inexplicably glad to be back in his reach. he’ll snap his clawed fingers at warpig, who’ll stride forward silently with a delicate laser scalpel-sealer in one hand and jar of oral anesthetic in the other. the captain’s arm will reach around you and pull your spine squarely against his belly; one fist will close with shocking, mocking gentleness on your jaw, forcing your mouth into an embarrassing slippery-wide pout in front of his entire crew. the fingers of his other hand will dip into warpig’s jar of anesthetic and then slide between your lips, stroking over tongue and teeth till he’s coated every soft wet surface. then rocket will nod to his chief medic, and she’ll step forward with the tiny scarlet laser, as glowing-red as rocket’s augmented eye. you’ll flinch, of course — look up over your shoulder to the universe-killer, hoping he’ll give you pity or answers. he never gives you pity.

this time the tracker goes inside you, rocket will explain with a smirk, while your gums grow numb and spit glosses the corner of your mouth, shining silkenly along your chin.  open up, pretty thing, he’ll coo, and his grip on your chin will force your lips wider. the surgery will be quick — painful despite warpig’s surprising delicacy, and the generous overuse of anesthetic cream — but you’re strong, and frankly, you’re just glad to be back home. rocket’s heavy metal claw will weigh down the juncture of your throat and shoulder, stroking soothingly along your skin as warpig finishes up and you rest your tired body and tear-swollen face against cold metal and fur, uncaring of your audience. there now, this rocket will croon indulgently. only one last step, sweetheart. the shallow attempt at consolation will harden into a brittle grin. beg me to bite you. you blink up at him, eyes owlish and bruised. w-what? wanna give you a permanent collar to go with that permanent tracker, he’ll tell you reasonably. wanna make sure everybody in the fuckin’ universe knows you’re mine.  the grin — bright as a diamond-edged sawblade — will grow sharper, and you’ll suddenly feel the purpose beneath the cool metal hand weighing down your throat. and i want you to beg for it, he’ll add, thumb stroking along your carotid as he smiles at you. the hellspawn will watch on, silent, with perhaps a little more deference than they’ve shown you in the past. hazily, you‘ll feel yourself tilt your head, baring throat and shoulder to his teeth as your swollen, spit-glossed lips part to beg for your bite. no, universe-killer rocket doesn’t fall. he drags you down deep, to wherever he’s at.

marvel rivals rocket

FALLING: unlike the other rockets, this guy’s got no qualms with hitting on you from day one. you’re it, babe — for this cycle, anyway. he sees you, he wants you, and he’s gonna keep up with the outrageous come-ons till you’re charmed enough to let him in your bunk.  it’s all drawled snarky flirtations, tipped hats and sly grins, a hundred come-hither winks beneath taunting tosses of hair. he loves how you respond: cheeks warm and nervous at first, but he can tell you’re into it. and he’s absolutely lustdrunk when you get more comfortable and start paying back each and every slightly-smarmy compliment with an eyeroll or a smartass wink — right before flicking his shiny earring in a way that manages to make him want to sputter like a moon-eyed virgin.  this rocket doesn’t really think about it as anything deeper. not at first. he just likes the way you look, the way you smell. the sound of your grumpy g’morning first thing in the rotation, when your voice is all hushed and crushed and sleepy before you pour yourself that first cup of hot caffeine.  eventually — once he wins you over — he’ll be infatuated by the feel of you under his hands, too:  the uniqueness of your fat-to-muscle ratio, the way your humie-lips are so much fuller and more plumped-up than his, the bluntness of your bite. the way — blindfolded — he can run his fingers over tiny patches of your skin and know exactly which part of you it belongs to. that’s that ticklish inner elbow, he’ll say with a leer and his candy-red eyes closed tight. the right one.  he loves games, after all — and sure, he usually cheats at ’em, but he doesn’t need to with this one.  that’s the inside of your left knee. the arch of your right foot. middle of your back, just to the left of your spine, sorta under your shoulderblade. that’s the skin riiiiight under that bouncy left ass-cheek. and that’s your tummy, at the tippy-top of your belly-button.  i keep tellin’ you, sugar, each spot on you feels different.  and i got you memorized. 

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: one cycle of no-strings sexual gratification turns into two. three. five. eleven. thirty-two. he expects to get bored but you’re always up to try something new, aren’t you? and not just in the bunk, either. they get a call to a weird new planet, and you’re eager to go. some new heroic oddballs show up, ready to join the fight — and you’re happy to play along, meet new people, figure out ways to complement their skills with your own. he decides he’s gotta go on a hunt across the universe to find out what happened to lylla, and you’re asking how quickly the two of you can head out. sometimes you get all nervy and skittish, but you’re always open to a new adventure, and you’ve always got his six.  which is why he’s gonna make sure that he’s always got yours. 

comics rocket (ewing, rosenberg, et al)

FALLING: like his eidos-counterpart, this rocket probably doesn’t even look at you twice. at first.  you see, he’s also got a type, and it’s got nothing to do with skin color or body size or number of limbs. rocket prefers one-night-stands in general, but if he’s gonna start a relationship, it’s probably gonna be with a hottie who low-key loathes him. not necessarily in a step-on-me sort of way — not that he’s always opposed to that, either — but just in the way where he can vaguely pick up on a little condescension, a little contempt. the likelihood of an eventual betrayal. it sort of automatically puts an expiration date on things, and there’s some security in that. and besides, it’s not like he holds himself in all that high of regard anyway. so when you enter the scene — a fellow crew member who he’ll have to live with for who-knows-how-long, with barely a breath of true derision in your whole body — some part of rocket’s brain just turns off and doesn’t even acknowledge your presence.  quiet persistence is key here. personally, i’m always a fan of bringing this rocket late-night cups of coffee in the cockpit. it’s a lot harder for him to ignore you when you’re the only other person in the room and the rest of the guardians are all asleep in their bunks, and the ship feels dark and dreamy and hallowed. eventually, your one-sided conversations will lull him into a place where he misses your company on the sleepshifts when you don’t show up. flying alone is great and all, but nothing compares to having you rambling quietly about nothing, or snoozing in the copilot’s seat, glossed up in starlight and haloed by galaxies. rocket’s been lucky enough to have a few good friends in his life, and even more lovers. but at some point — when you’re laughingly telling him some story, or listening to him attentively with moons reflected in your eyes, or muffling little yawns and snuffling snores into the duvet you‘ve started hauling into the cockpit with you, rumpled in sleepiness and wearing fuzzy flarkin’ slippers on your hopeless humie feet — at some point, he’ll start to wonder if he can let himself have someone who’s both.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: there’s no lightning-strike moment here. this rocket feels himself losing it one sappy flarkin’ brain cell at a time: whenever you ask him a clever question, or when your lashes fan over your cheeks while you doze, or when one slipper dangles off your frail bare foot. and then — late  one sleepshift — he looks over at you, all vulnerable and trusting and freckled by flakes of starlight. he closes his eyes, and sighs, and pinches the space between his brows. shakes his head, and stares out the viewport, and takes a sip of the coffee you’d made him. yup, he thinks, with a stoic flattening of his brow, and resignation twitching downward in the corner of his mouth. yup, there goes the last little bit of his self-preservation. he’s a fuckin’  goner.

comics rocket (skottie young)

FALLING: looook, babe. real talk: this rocket thought you were cute from the beginning, and he totally wouldn’t mind boning you if it weren’t for his whole self-imposed  “don’t fuck your co-workers” rule (a rule which, he’s noticed, neither pete nor gamora seem similarly hindered by). being cute doesn’t really set you apart though — rocket’s had more bedpartners than he can count, and frankly — in their favor — almost all of ‘em had more money he could steal on his way out.  so he doesn’t imagine you’re gonna be that much of a temptation.  then the crew ends up  on nivlent during their annual wrestling tournament, and groot’s sorta a local legend when it comes to nivlentine wrestling. usually the rest of the crew leave him and his buddy alone when they’re mission-free and planetside. let ‘em do their own thing — which is mostly causing fights, fixing fights, gambling on fights, and making a scene. but you insist on joining them — maybe a little naively, rocket thinks — ‘cause you wanna “support groot in his wrestling matches.” look, rocket’s taken a lot of dates to wrestling shows — the louder and wilder, the better — and they never seem into it. he’s already positively grumpy at the thought of having his enjoyment dimmed by some wet-blanket babe who can’t appreciate a good adrenaline rush and who he’s not even gonna get to rail afterward. but not two seconds into the first match, you’re up on your feet before he is, jumping and whooping, a grin on your face and glitter in your eyes while you cheer for your boy in the ring. it makes rocket’s jaw drop at first. then he scrambles up on his chair next to you and joins his yells with yours, pressing himself shoulder to shoulder with you as you’re squeezed together by the crowd on either side. yeah. you’re by far the rowdiest supporter in the stands, and by the end of the night, rocket can barely see the stage thanks to the hearts blossoming up in his eyes. that’s when he starts paying more attention to you: watching the way you handle your blasters, keeping an eye on you in missions. flirting with purposefully over-the-top outrageousness and a wide shit-eating grin that makes you roll your eyes and laugh: certain that he’s just making fun of you, and taking it all in a stride.  by the time you start attending dungeons-and-dragons nights, he’s basically lost it. not only can you hold your own in a crowd of overzealous nivlentine wrestling fans during a planetwide championship, but you’ve got almost as good an imagination as he does? and you keep putting tony in his place when the bastard deliberately tries to derail rocket’s campaign plans — which is not only hot as hell but also gives rocket an unfamiliar flutter behind his breastbone. for flark’s sake, he doesn’t even mind you teasing him about always being the gm when you keep saying “game master” in that throaty tone of voice.  in spite of the whole “no fucking coworkers” thing, he can’t keep himself from wondering if you’d be interested in trying some other roleplaying games back in his bunk.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: which is all to say that rocket’s already lost in the sauce during a mission that skews sideways. and by “mission” i mean: this guy probably got himself into some kind of trouble — caught by an angry space princess he ran out on, or someone he stole a fuckton of money from, or both. maybe his big mouth started a brawl at a local dive bar just by saying a bunch of glarnack he shouldn’t have. things are looking pretty dire — not that he’d ever lose a fight, but he’s starting to get sort of banged up — when you swoop in out of nowhere and save the day with a well-aimed stunner-blast.  forget hearts. he stares up at you with whole galaxies in his eyes.  “i didn’t expect you to come rushing in to save my tail,” he teases later, with an ice-cold can of blubber ale pressed to one aching swollen eye. you’re using a warm wet cloth to soften and rinse away the blood crusting in his fur, and for as wild as he’s used to things getting in bed, this feels so suddenly intimate that he has to audibly swallow. you snort. “i’ll always come rushing in to save you, tail or not,” you tell him, so simply that for the first time in his entire frutackin’ life, he has no smartass response at all.  look, this rocket has saved a lot of people (usually for the reward money), but he’s always been partial to the rare individual who turns the tables and saves him. gives him more of a buzz than fuel fumes, and more butterflies than asgard’s entire stock of firefly-wine. it’s not even just a kink (it’s a little bit of a kink). it’s just that this rocket is so deeply entrenched in his own perceived aloneness that when such a sweet honey shows up and has his back in a conflict — one that is arguably his own fault — it chips away at his sense of isolation. sure, he’s the only one of his kind, but maybe what he really wants and needs isn’t another person like him after all. maybe it’s a person like you.

references to: Rocket Raccoon & Groot (2016), Vol 2 Issue 4 | Rocket Raccoon: A Chasing Tale Vol 1 Issue 1 | Rocket Raccoon: Storytailer, Issue 7

mcu rocket

CLINGER: it’s too bad that you’re smitten with rocket from the moment you meet him, because of course, this guy’s too full of self-loathing to realize it. unfortunately, like a duckling, you imprint on him right away. something about his crankiness makes you trust him immediately, as if it’s an indicator of his authenticity. and being in the far reaches of outer space is fucking scary for a freshfaced terran like you, unused to being out in the stars. so you pretend nonchalance while you wander into the cockpit when he’s there, and the commons bay when he’s there, and the engine room when he’s there… it’s equally too bad that rocket’s not a frickin’ idiot. he notices right away — how you flicker at  the edges of his presence like a moonmoth to a bowlight— and it’s fuckin’ annoying. early on, in a fitful moment of defensiveness, he sneers at you with all sorts of poison in his voice. clingy much? it's pretty much the only thing he's said to you since you've showed up. humiliation heats your cheeks, but it doesn’t make you stop. for fuck’s sake — why are you always watching him like that? d’you think he’s gonna steal something? (spoiler alert. he is gonna steal something. or at least, he’s gonna try. but having your eyes on him around the clock has stopped him from swiping a number of little treasures over the last few cycles, and his resentment grows each time.) with each passing rotation, his tension ratchets higher and higher, and he hates how certain he is that your big, manipulative eyes are picking apart everything about him: his flinches, his scars, his aches. his criminal intentions.  eventually — as per frickin’ usual — he cracks under the strain. furious, venomous words ricochet from his lungs and spit out his mouth, like bullets and ion blasts.  get the fuck away from me, he seethes, you nosy fuckin’ parasite. and you do. rocket feels bad about it later: ears flat, tail tucked, moping and sulking even though he knows he’s got no right to be so miserable about his own frickin’s behavior. he feels even worse when gamora scolds him for it — reminding him that you’ve got no-one out here.  lots of people got no-one, he snaps back, as if it doesn’t make his already-crumpled-up heart shrivel and pinch further in his chest. at least the rest of us manage to keep from being so damn annoying about it. rocket, gamora deadpans, that sweet kid is probably the only person on this ship who doesn’t think you’re annoying.  she shakes her head, like he’s the idiot.  they just want to be around you. he freezes at that. scoffs. gamora’s usually a decent judge of character, but in this case, she’s gotta be wrong. rocket’s pretty sure that the only person who’s wanted to be around him since halfworld is groot senior. everyone else is just there due to obligation or familiarity, as far as he can tell. and you’ve got no obligation, and even less familiarity.

CLINGEE: still, though—he starts watching you. really watching you, trying to tamp down on his preconceived notions. you’re — well. you’re a little clingy with everyone, aren’t you? like a lost little puppy. worried every time they leave; eager to see them back. trying to discreetly check them over for injuries, always looking uncertain of your own welcome. you’re so concerned, so caring. it’s still annoying, of course — on principle — but it’s increasingly hard for him to dredge up any hostility about it.  he tells himself that you need to toughen up. that nobody out here is gonna be as stable and dependable as you apparently need. that you gotta get some calluses to survive in space. but he can’t bring himself to say as much. not out loud. he figures he’s done enough damage to your soft, fragile feelings. and besides, it’s not like he doesn’t notice that you never follow any of the others the way you used to follow him.  only now, the memory of you chasing him around doesn’t feel like such a sour, suspicious thing. now, he wishes he’d enjoyed it more. because the truth is, you’re kind of cute about it. a little self-conscious. a little needy. in retrospect, it could’ve been nice — someone wanting him around that much. someone worrying and fretting over his absences, hoping to be consoled with kisses when he returns. it gets harder and harder to sneer at you every rotation, and even the gruffness in his voice starts to feel more like velvet than sawblades.  it’s not till he’s waiting in the cockpit, tracking your ship as you go on your first-ever solo mission — plucking a bald spot into his tail and planning regular transmission check-ins every rotation — that he realizes what’s happened. And it’s all stupidly thanks to pete: strolling in, all nonchalant — like you aren’t a few hundred lightyears away, all by your lonesome, and not due back on the benatar  for another five-and-a-half-rotations. rocket’s already promised himself that when you get back, he’ll be nice. so nice. hell, he might even frickin’ apologize for being such a dickhead. he’ll let you hang around as much as you want: camp out with him in the cockpit, hand him tools in the mechanical room.  sleep in his frickin’ bunk. if you want. fuck. it’ll be fine, pete says, interrupting rocket’s thoughts with a roll of his eyes. he tells rocket how smart you are, how clever, how resourceful — as if rocket didn’t know all that.  there’s nothing to worry about, dude— i just want ‘em home, rocket snaps.  another handful of fur floats to the cockpit floor, and pete rolls his eyes again, smirking. geez, rocket.  clingy much?

eidos rocket

CLINGER: he’s not sure how the flark you won him over. ever since he’d made the mistake of telling you he thought he was gonna die — just a little hazing for the newbie, nothing serious; not till you'd started bawling your d’ast eyes out, looking like he’d broken your soft little humie heart — he’s found it hard to take his eyes off you. you’re cute. like, real cute. and even if he’s a scummy son-of-a-chog who really should leave you alone, he can’t help but wanna keep you close.  and apparently the feeling’s flarkin’ mutual, because you seem to be around all the time these days. he’d bet a hundred-k credits that you’d follow him right into his bunk if he let you, never mind the fact that he figures you’re just a little too innocent for most of the games he likes to play there.  it’s the first time he goes on a solo mission that he realizes just how attached you’ve gotten. your brow’s all pinched and twisted, and you look a little waxy, skin damp like you’ve got a fever or chills or both. just not feeling my best today, you tell groot when he asks, then mumble something about headaches and nausea. you’re scrubbing your knuckles over your sternum like you’ve got heartburn. his ears twitch. every once in a while your heart does a double-beat, hiccuping like the false start in a sprint, and your breathing gets reedy and shallow. what the fuck? you worried about me, sweet thing? he’d meant it to sound condescending and smug, but the words come out crackled with concern. he’s developed a begrudging sort of affection for you. maybe even a rather filthy fixation that he’d absolutely act on if he hadn’t sworn off biologicals. not to mention that watching pete and gamora fumble around like a pair of flarkwits is enough to put anyone off the idea of dating in-house.  you flinch when he asks, though. just… come back, you’d ordered through bloodless, pinched lips. normally he’d balk under someone thinkin’ they could tell him what to do, but it strikes something in him: what you’d said. the way you’d said it. he knows what it’s like to be afraid of losing people.  so instead of getting snippy, he just squints up at you with caramel-rum eyes and finds — for once in his d'ast life — some krutackin' patience. hey, i got some stuff in my bunk that needs to be kept watch over, rocket tells you slowly. the words are cautious, even if the impulse isn't. but then, he’s always been a creature of impulse. do me a favor, sweet thing — sleep in there while i’m gone? you can have the hammock. might be a tight squeeze, but— okay, you say quickly, like he’s just offered you way more than a substandard bed. his eyes narrow further. f’you hear any weird beeping, get quill, he instructs, knowing that you won’t hear anything of the sort. or, well, if you do, it won’t matter anyway, because half the sector’ll already be condensing into a manufactured black hole from that black-market gravity-bomb he’s been messing around with for the last quarter. no — needing you to keep an eye on his scut is just a pretty fiction for both of you. an excuse — to comfort you, of course.  and maybe to get you into his bed without him having to worry about flarking things up. 

CLINGEE: he imagines it a few times. that is, a few times for each and every rotation that he’s away. he kinda likes picturing you, climbing clumsily into his hanging bed. snuggling up to his pillow. waking in a loose sleepy tangle of limbs. maybe once or twice, he even indulges in the thought of you playing with yourself there, just 'cause you can’t help but miss him oh-so-very-much — even though he’s never once let himself touch you like that before. so far, anyway.  when rocket finally returns to the milano a cycle-and-a-half later, you’re waiting at the airlock before his pod even docks. your eyes look starved for him.  and it’s… gratifying.  flark. not even groot has ever looked so thrilled by his return. throughout the rest of the rotation, you stick so close to him that he can feel you brushing against his fur everytime you breathe. funny — a quarter or two ago, he woulda found it as annoying as flark.  now he leans in. maybe he should go more often, he thinks — if this is the sweet homecoming he gets when he returns. you, clinging to him like honey.  the sleepshift destroys that idea, though. he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to come home to a bed you’d slept in. never again, he thinks, fisting a handful of the blanket still drenched in your scent. he drags the fragrance into his lungs, practic’ly salivating while he grips his aching dick and strokes it along the curve. fuck morals and ethics and the stickiness of workplace-relationships. and fuck you, for getting your flarkin’ pheromones or whatever all over his d’ast hammock — never mind he’s the chog who told you to sleep there. he forces himself to let go of his cock and his quilt, fumbling himself back into his pants and raking an angry claw through his beard, tousling the fur on top of his head.  never again, he snarls on repeat under his breath, starting for the hatch of his bunk — heading toward you like the gravity-bomb’s been set off after all, and you’re the walking talking singularity. yeah, fuck you. he’s never letting you sleep in his bunk without him again. short term, the only solution is to drag you back here tonight. longterm? he’ll just have to take you with him. 

cartoon rocket

CLINGER: this rocket cannot, for the life of him, recognize what your separation anxiety for what it is. all he knows is that it’s a perfect compliment to his touch-starvation.  oh, he might pretend to feel smothered when he first meets you, but he’s besotted quickly enough. how could he not be, when you’re always cracking jokes at quill’s expense and showing off that big beautiful brain of yours in a hundred little ways you probably don’t even realize? besides, he reasons. everyone in the guardians has their quirks and flaws. better for all of them if you’re a little overeager for connection, rather than keeping everyone at arm’s length. enough of ‘em already do that — himself included.

CLINGEE: to be honest, rocket’s probably not the healthiest influence on you. he indulges himself by indulging you: perching on your back and peering over your shoulder, draping himself against your side whenever he gets a chance. he preens under your attentions, like the fact that you want his presence so bad is proof that he’s more than a runty, ratty little flark-up.  groot encourages it, too. the big guy’s sweet, but he doesn’t understand enmeshed attachment or codependency. he’s just happy to see that his friend has another friend — especially one like you, who the flora colossus likes so much.  maybe you should try to be a little more independent. the consistency of rocket’s presence in your life — entertaining you with snark while the two of you eat elbow-to-elbow; insisting that you’re always partnered with him and groot so he can keep a hand on you at all times; telling you stories while he tinkers with some tiny machine in your bunk till you fall asleep with your head on his thigh, dreaming of clinking metal and growly grumbles — well. you’re worried it will make things so much more distressing when you do have to separate for whatever reason.  but for better or worse, rocket has no intentions of letting that happen.

universe-killer rocket

CLINGER: it takes a minute for universe-killer rocket to figure out you’ve got a little separation anxiety — and the microsecond that he does, he pounces. how can he help himself? this rocket has learned to take every scrap he wants. he’s so darkly delighted to find that you have such an easily-exploitable weakness, and he’s thrilled to figure out how he can manipulate it to please himself. in this case, pleasing himself mostly means breaking you down into a cute, dependent little humie pet: willing to give him the information only you know, or complete the tasks only you can complete. and equally willing to beg for his collar around your throat or his bite on your skin. so he gets to work, with all the power of that intuitive genius that seems to come so easily to him. eventually he settles on a calculated cocktail of instability and stockholm syndrome, which seems to do the job nicely. in no time, you’re doing everything in your power to convince him to keep you by his side. once, you even going so far as to offer to let him leash you if he’ll take you with him.  he gives in that time. for his own entertainment.  and you are entertaining. for fuck’s sake, at some point, you start picking your cuticles raw every time he leaves you locked in his captain’s quarters for an hour or two, till he threatens to keep you electrocuffed to the bed if you don’t stop.  no-one spills your pretty red blood but me, he teases, his unholy prosthetic eye all aglow. not even you. later, when the hellspawn fleet has overtaken a new star system and knowhere is blotting out some poor planet’s sun, the universe-killer is called to descend to the world below on account of some disagreement between his crew. It’s a minor matter — one they should be able to figure out on their own — but they’re terrified enough to ask for his input, and he’s always pleased with the power that comes from giving it.  and when he returns to the skull, smug and satisfied — why, you’re practic'ly frickin' weepy. he loves that about you. loves how you look up at him with those big wet eyes and trembly-tear-glossed lips, the slightly-swollen tip of your nose from scrubbing at it while you’d sniffled in his absence. it’s fucking intoxicating, in a way he hasn’t been able to manufacture with chemical substances. what’s left of his biological nervous system crackles with static; the mech-engineered nerves feel like they’re sparking, hot little lances of pain. yeah, he loves it. loves you. whatever. loves the way that you hiccup when your eyes finally fall on him, the tension rippling out of your shoulders in relief only to come rolling back in when you remember that he’s a fuckin’ monster. loves the way you start warbling again, tripping over your words when you try to convince him that you’re so grateful for his return. it isn’t till the next time he’s called away that he figures it out. he’s amused, at first — like he always is — at the way you beg him not to leave, promising him you’ll be good, pleading with him to take you with him. amused, and pleased, and more turned on than he has time for right now. mockingly — not expecting a real answer — he asks what has you so needy for a universe-killer’s company.  you don’t want to tell him. universe-killer rocket has a laugh that curdles your insides: sarcastic, taunting, gleeful. you fully expect it to be wielded in your direction if you admit why you need him to stay, to keep you with him. it’s a laugh that slices through you, that always seems to show you in no uncertain terms jyst how vulnerable you really are, and you’ve no desire to have it turned toward you once more. but — you’ve also been under his thumb too long to disobey. so, hiccuping and hyperventilating around mouthfuls of tears —  you tell him anyway.

CLINGEE CAPTOR: it’s not that you want him around, he realizes slowly — and he’s a fuckin’ idiot for thinking that it was. it’s not even that you crave the illusion of stability that his presence provides, or — better still — that you’ve started craving him the same way he’s started craving you.  (unfortunately, all those things are true — he simply hasn’t forced those particular confessions from your lips yet.) no. the reason you can’t bear for him to leave is that — at some point, in some way — someone has convinced you that they’ll hurt you when he’s not around.  one of his hellspawn has dared to make his pet feel unsafe on knowhere.  maybe he should be glad about it. smug. whatever threats they’d levied had helped turn you into this: pliant for him — at least on some days — and so humble and grateful, begging him to keep you. but he doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like it at all. he tells himself it’s because you’re his to break. he tells himself it’s because they scared you without his permission.  he even almost believes it.  he seethes. he forgets leaving you. forgets the thing he was asked to come fix, too. his crew will figure it out themselves anyway — or they won’t like the consequences. instead, he holds your face in his enormous, metal mitt — the one that can turn into a fucking bazooka — and tilts your gaze up to his. and he drops one word — like a fucking bomb. who?  and later — when he finally leaves you sniffling and teary and lonely in his quarters — it’s only to make sure nobody thinks they can scare you like that again.

rivals rocket

CLINGER: the truth is, this rocket barely even clocks your anxiety at first. he’s been enjoying flirting with you for some time — opts into spending so much time with you that it hardly even registers that you’re a little clingy. when it does occur to him, he only finds himself a little disappointed that you wouldn’t take too well to a quick fuck or a fling. too bad. he’d love to have some fun with you if he wasn’t worried you’d want him to stay.  but even without mutual orgasms, or maybe some makeout-sessions, he enjoys his time with you. you’re arguably the most tolerable person around — other than groot, of course. and he doesn’t really think of your neediness other than with an occasional vague half-regret.  suddenly — out of nowhere, unexpectedly —  the first few chronoverses open up. and it’s chaos — messy, gritty, confusing chaos — but the two of you are together, at least. for the first handful of battles, you're together. and then the next time, you’re not.  he comes back to his real universe, high on a win.  a little freaked out, sure — but he always loves a chance to kill some guys. it takes a second for him to realize you’re not there waiting for him — that you went somewhere, too, and that he has no way of knowing when or where. before he can process the sudden ripple of unease under his fur, though — the abrupt certainty that he’s going to be the next bastard molding and destroying the space-time continuum like a handful of plastic explosive — you’re back: swirling into existence right as you crumple to your knees. tears silver your cheeks, leaving behind salt and rivers of glass. 

CLINGEE: he’ll never forget the way his heart drops, sickening and gutted and hollow, certain you’ve been traumatized or wounded — maybe even mortally. he all but lunges at you, gripping his prickling claws into your upper arms, hauling you upright so he can check you over. you look unharmed— for all that your breath is hitching and hiccupy. your fingers plunge into his fur and curl, anchoring yourself to him like you’re daring doom’s chronoverses to try and tear you away again. his nose flares, but he can’t pick up the scent of any blood; his ears prick, but your heart sounds mostly normal, if far too fast. he asks what’s wrong, what happened, if you’re okay; you try to respond — at least, he thinks you do — but all your words are a wreckage of broken gasps.  later, he’ll stay up for rotations on end. he’d previously been working on some better weapons — some tech that could maybe help stabilize some of the secondary chronoverses, too. but after today, he’ll redirect his time and energy into making something that can keep you two together. because what happens if you get pulled somewhere without him? and you panic like this, where there’s no-one good enough to take care of you? to protect you and look out for you? no. wherever you go — whenever you go — he goes too. that’s just how it’s gotta be.  but for now — in this moment — he has to deal with the gasping, wrenching, gutting agony of your anxiety attack. too bad he’s no good at it. injuries he can handle — but as much as he’d love to console you right now, he’s trash at this emotional stuff. so he tries to get up, to go find someone who might actually know how to be comforting.  but your fingers knot in his, big teary eyes begging wordlessly: stay.  he’s never really thought of himself as a pushover before, but here he is: wrapped around you, petting you, holding you tight. trying to help you slow your breathing. muttering into your skin: yeah, yeah. okay. i’m here, sweetheart.  i’ll stay. 

comics rocket (ewing, rosenberg, et al)

CLINGER: this rocket is the rocket that takes the healthiest approach to your separation anxiety. not because he’s got any emotional intelligence, mind you. just chalk it up to his .976 optimum intuitive grasp. or his infamous, innate skill for strategy. or something.  it’s a bumpy start, though. as a rule, rocket doesn’t bother trying to learn new crewmates’ names. the original guardians can barely stand to stick together for more than a quarter at a time — most of the new ones don’t last half that long. and stronger earthers than you — kitty, ben — have ended up tucking tail and going home to their backwater mudball far sooner than rocket would have liked. so combine that with his own reluctance to develop relationships — not to mention pete tryin’ to flarkin’ strongarm rocket into showing you around the ship — and he’s got a healthy dose of resentment already brewing by the time he realizes you’ve, like, bonded to him or something. …sucks to be you, he thinks. you’ve gone an developed some sort of attachment issue to the one grizmod on the ship who’d rather be alone. he manages to stoically ignore you at first. and to your credit, you don’t kick up a fuss about it. you simply find your own grizz to do, lingering in his periphery like an annoyingly-endearing shadow. you never seem to demand his attention — nothing more than a nod, a shy smile, the occasional offer of coffee.  it isn’t till the guardians undergo one of their annual krutackin’ break-ups that he realizes how much trouble you’re in.  the truth is that all the guardians — with the exception of you and groot — are prone to throwing temper tantrums when they don’t get their way. and yeah, that includes rocket himself — and he knows it, though he’ll never admit it out loud. In the middle of this particular fight, gamora storms off in the only working escape pod, and drax demands to be let off at the next spaceport, and frankly — rocket yells — pete better be plannin’ on hitching a ride there too, because rocket’s put in too many hours working on this gorgeous ship to give it up for a manipulative brat like flarkin’ star-lord. and nobody — not even groot — notices how hard you’re trying to bend over backward, to get them to talk, to try to make a little peace between them all.  later, rocket remembers it. your teary eyes, the way you’d practically started hyperventilating when gamora had left — you pupils dilating in panic. he remembers it. he thinks about it. he can’t stop turning it over in his head. halfway through the sleepshift he gives up on rest and makes his way back to the cockpit, intent on flying them that much closer to a place where they can split up — trying to figure out what the flark he’s gonna do with you. give you to pete, till the next time they get back together? it’s the smart decision, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. pete’s a little safer than rocket. less likely to take risks, maybe. less prickly, certainly. though k’ythri only knows what will happen if the grizmod gets it into his head to seduce you — which is another thought that puts rocket’s sharp incisors on edge. all these tangled thoughts are the reason why rocket’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice you in the copilot’s seat until he’s almost sitting down next to you. it makes him jump, and he never flarkin’ jumps.  for sharra’s sake, he almost yelps. what the krutack are you doin’ here? you blink up at him with bleary eyes and salt on your cheeks. a divot’s carved between your eyes, and your lips tremble and purse. sorry, you croak, your voice all throaty and hoarse like you’ve been sobbing. something stupid wrenches in his chest. he scrubs at his manufactured sternum uselessly, so distracted — again — that he almost misses it when you tell him you’re leaving.

CLINGEE: wait, rocket says impulsively, as you begin shuffling yourself out of the seat. just — just flarkin’ hold on. he pinches the bridge of his nose. look. are you… all right? you stare at him blankly. you look like the saddest krutackin’ thing in the universe. yeah, you whisper after a moment. i’m fine. i just have a headache. you turn, and he finds himself calling out again. wait. uh — you know where the headache meds are? he ends up getting them for you. meds. a cup of water. he gruffly encourages you to sit. and he asks. what’s goin’ on? why are you so worked up? it’s nothing to freak out about, he tells you. splitting up is something the guardians do with more regularity than breaking the law or saving the galaxy. they all just need some time to cool off. they’ll be back. they always are.  your pretty eyes start leaking again as he talks, and he kinda wants to strangle himself. he’s even tempted to try it. but instead, he does what he does best. he strategizes. before you know it, he’s steadying you. distracting you. not well, but enough that your tears come slower. less often. and once he’s sure you’re asleep, he’s sending a transmission to gamora. i don’t care how pissed you are, he snaps into the holorecording. you don’t walk off again like that without talking to the new kid first. and you need to comm ‘em first thing in the wakeshift. every first wakeshift for as long as you’re gone. regular, steady contact. you understand?  a growl.  you owe me, gams. drax and pete wake up right as gamora happens to comm him back. rocket’s grateful you’re still sleeping — worn out, he assumes, by yesterday’s distress.  listen, he says. he has to grimace around the sour taste of his pride as he swallows it down. for you. listen. i still hate you all. lie. but i’ve hated you before, and we still managed to pull ourselves together to save the universe or whatever. this is — this is just as important. of course, everyone agrees. soon, they’ve got a whole scheme worked out. regular solo-missions for the foreseeable future, one at a time, starting out with contracts that will only require a few hours apart and gradually growing longer. plans for each guardian to talk with you about goodbye rituals and keeping in contact with you during their absences. increasing independence. it’s a flexible plan — responsive to your needs, while balancing the expectations of their good paying customers. flexible, but steady. reliable. stable.  probably more stable than anything they’ve ever tried to do before. which means, rocket thinks with a sigh, that they’re bound to flark it up. but for you, they’re willing to try. together. and so is he. 

comics rocket (skottie young)

CLINGER: skottie-young-rocket is no stranger to a clingy babe. when you save someone, they kinda tend to get attached. and when you give ‘em the tail, then they really don’t wanna leave.  he doesn’t mind. it’s one of the perks of bein’ a hero or whatever. and he’s always been good at escaping when he wants to.  which means he usually only sticks around long enough to get his rocks off, get his partner’s rocks off, and then hack into their accounts and clean out as much of their treasury as he can. to, uh, cover the costs of the rescue, of course.  but you — needy when he’s around, irritable whenever he’s gotta go — for some reason, he flarkin’ loves it. the grumpiness is cute: the way you go from being the sweetest, friendliest, funniest, hottest little number he knows to suddenly hissing like an angry flerken-kit, all cranky and annoyed, prickly as hell — just because you gotta go a few hours without him.

CLINGEE: yeah. rocket likes your clinginess. so sue him. he probably even teases you about it. until one sleepshift, right before he’s s’posed to take off for a couple cycles, when you turn on him with bared, blunt teeth and a tiny growl that’s probably the least intimidating thing he’s ever heard. how would you like it? you spit, all cutely-raised hackles and narrowed, flashing eyes. if i were leaving all the time, and you didn’t know when i was coming back? or if i was coming back? or if i was safe or okay? his smile drops like someone has turned the gravity up to five-hundred, brows suddenly slanting, stricken. because as erratic as this rocket is, he’s still deeply empathetic — he just needs someone to spell things out for him from time to time. and the fact is, he wouldn’t like that. not at all. after all, doesn’t he know what it’s like to be the loneliest guy in the universe?  he palms the back of his head and stammers out lopsided excuses and weak apologies, hating himself for all the times he hasn’t taken it seriously. he promises to comm you once every shift, just to let you know what’s goin’ on. and while he’s away, he works on a new little gadget. bespoke matching trackers, with expansive long-range signal. one for each of you. so you both always exactly know where each other are. 

but you're the most attentive, focused lover he's ever had. not only do you make him come harder than he ever has in his frickin’ life, but you do all these other things that he's never even thought about before. you’re stroking his tail in long, sleek, teasing tugs that send frissons up his spine until he starts feeling his cock nudge against its sheath, even when it's inconvenient. you’re scratching the base of his ears, or yanking on fistfuls of his fur in a way that makes starburst-explosions blossom behind his eyelids. massaging the hollow of his back, right above his tail, so that his legs stiffen and his hips spasm against you. smiling when you do it, like you love finding new ways to make him feel good in this body that so often aches and burns and almost never feels like home.

and then one day —while you’re tunneling your fingers through the pelt that covers his chest — you happen to accidentally thumb one tiny, hard nipple, buried by fur.

he hisses at the touch, pupils pooling darker and wider than they ever have before — even now, when he's already inside you. you blink, your face just inches from his, and tentatively brush the little pebble again.

fuck! he barks out, surprised, almost recoiling. what the fuck—

wait, no, i'm sorry, you say, reeling him back in with both arms and both legs wound around him. did that hurt? i thought — when i found it, i thought you might like it.

he hesitates. blinks at you — eyes narrow, then curious. and he doesn't need to say it for you to figure it out: he's not sure. he doesn't know.

if there's a chance you might like it, we should find out, you say coaxingly. you can tell me to stop anytime, but — i don't know.

you gnaw at your lip.

life has given you so much pain, you tell him at last. the words are slow and cautious as you cradle his long narrow jaw in your hands, thumbs stroking along his whiskers. sometimes it feels like my personal mission to find all the things that make you feel good, and make sure you don't miss out on a single one.

his eyes flicker over you. you're too fuckin' sweet, he thinks. too good for him, by far. he leans in and nuzzles against your throat, and gives you that rare permission that he saves for when he's feeling particularly soft and trusting with you.

do whatever you want to me, baby.

you start out slow: stroking, playing with the nipple you'd found — searching for its opposite partner and then thumbing them both at the same time. his hips arch and his tail fluffs up, and he can only blink at you, stunned by the flush of heat running up from the base of his tail to his cheeks and his flickering ears. when you gently pluck at each tiny nub — alternating first, then at the same time — he hisses and groans, dick twitching inside you as he tries to stay still. it’s like you’ve found two electrical lines straight to his balls. his abdomen tightens and his hips kick.

through it all, you're checking in — asking him if he's feeling okay, if he likes it, if he's enjoying your hands on him. and he's grunting out fuck yeahs and what the hells, like his own body is surprising him every time you try something new: little flicks, squeezes, light and gentle twists. you're basically just cockwarming him now, but every tiny bit of stimulation to this newly-discovered erogenous zone has him bucking inside you.

and when you try out a sharp pinch for the first time — both nipples, just once — that's when he comes, a choked sound snarling in his throat, his claws suddenly flexing into your ass-cheeks as his spine spasms and his hips slam forward. sparks explode at the base of his spine and in front of his eyes, blotting out his vision, and he spurts like a fountain inside you.

later, he thinks he almost blacked out. almost blacked the fuck out. that's never happened before — not for him. for his partners, sure — but never for him. he can't even be embarrassed, though — not when he blinks open bleary eyes, cuddled against your shoulder with his nose nuzzled under your ear, and your hands stroking along his flanks. you've got a half-smile on your perfect mouth — almost as smug as his own most self-satisfied smirks — but the twinkle in your eyes is all warmth and softness as you lift one hand to thumb his whiskers, then massage the base of his ear.

i think we'll need to keep trying that out, you tease into his fur. just to see what works for you. a pause. unless you don't want to, of course.

he spits out an exhausted bark of laughter. fuck you, he says with a tired smirk. you know i do.

you grin — clearly delighted — and he arches a brow in playful challenge, despite how languid and warm his muscles feel.

just know i'm gonna get you back, twice as good.

sorryyyyy i don't usually write explicit nsfw for asks so i hope you don't mind babe. (i actually have a whole mental policy against it but i uhhhh couldn't help myself this time this is just where it wanted to go i apologize/hope you enjoyed darling) also for the good of the order, rivals-rocket for sure has pierced nipples (i guess anyone who saw yesterday’s fan art knows is a core belief of mine). and actually, now that i think about it, eidos-rocket probably does, too. really i've been leaving far too many piercings out of my eidos fanfiction.

mcu rocket

DOMS YOU: by doing whatever it takes to make you beg for him — to force you to convince him that you want him, that you need him. he’s a master of edging, and he wants desperately to leave marks on you as proof that he was there. it’s not a dealbreaker if you aren’t into spanking or biting or spanking or clamping or spanking or bruising, but he’d love to give you just a little bit of pain if you’re into it. also likes to degrade you a little too, but has a hard time bringing himself to be really mean when he likes you oh-so-much. oh — and the top-drop is real with this one, so make sure to provide good aftercare for your dom.

SUBS FOR YOU: the amount of trust it will take for this rocket to explicitly sub for you is immense (though it’s pretty clear early on that even if he likes to degrade you a little bit, you’re the one with all the power in the bedroom). he doesn’t like to be restrained by anything but his own willpower, which is admittedly flimsy. but for you, he’ll try: clenching his fists into the sheets of his bunk, gripping onto shelves and hatch-frames and anything else he can brace himself against to try to keep from touching you when you tell him to keep his hands to himself. he might even let you blindfold him, though he’s honest enough to admit that he can use his other senses to get a pretty clear idea of where you’re at and what you’re about to do. the truth is, this rocket really does want nothing more than to make you feel good — and if that means letting you take control, he’ll figure out a way to do it. after the first time — when you’ve given him so many orgasms he thinks he might’ve actually died and gone to a better afterlife than he deserves — he’s more willing to explore whatever options you want, just as long as you keep murmuring those sweet little reassurances that you’ll take care of him.

eidos rocket

DOMS YOU: most rockets have something of a gunplay-kink, but this guy takes it to the next level. he loves to both toss you around and boss you around, and lavish you with all sorts condescending praise — particularly when stretching you out on a cannon. plus, ever since that night you let him get you high on everbloom, he can’t stop thinking about how sweet and silly and eager-to-please you’d been while intoxicated. he won’t do anything without your explicit consent, but he can envision a whole galaxy of fun if you let him do that again.

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket generally avoids situations where he’s vulnerable, so at first it seems like you’re unlikely to ever get the upper hand. secretly, he also worries about having flashbacks to the labs when restrained, or the sensory deprivation chambers when, well, sensory-deprived, so traditional bondage is a no-go. i don’t think he minds you taking the lead, though — just be prepared for him to be bit of a pillow princess when roles are reversed. that said, the truth is that between the cold contempt of the kree scientists, lylla’s sacrifice for his life, and tella’s betrayal, this rocket — while vain as hell in regards to his pretty fur and stunning physique — does worry that there’s something intrinsically inadequate about himself as a person. shower him with enough authentic praise, and he’ll do just about anything to keep it (and you) coming.

cartoon rocket

DOMS YOU: this rocket absolutely sees himself as a dom and is also absolutely not one. underneath it all, some part of him believes that he’s still the unloved runt of his family and the weird one on halfworld — and no matter how amazingly brilliant and capable he’s become, that perception of himself never fully goes away. except for when he’s with you, that is. look, he tries to boss you around a bit. but when you give him that sweet, indulgent little smile and massage the base of his ears, he’ll do whatever he can to please you. the closest this rocket gets to “calling the shots” is when he leaves fine red scratch marks somewhere visible on your skin — loving the way it looks like he’s claimed you (even if part of him would much rather be claimed).

SUBS FOR YOU: did you see the episode with ja kyee lrurt? sure, it’ll take a whole lot of trust-building to get there, but once he’s fallen for you, this rocket will worship the ground you walk on. he’ll trip over his own tail trying to make you happy, both in and out of bed. step on him, spit in his mouth, and call him a good boy, and he’ll be thankful.

universe-killer rocket

DOMS YOU: WARNING. DANGER. if this rocket decides to let you live in the first place, he’ll be wanting to keep you collared around the clock. imagine everything the other rockets do to dom you, but dial the intensity up to thirteen and make it at least six shades darker. loves to see you crawl.

SUBS FOR YOU: oh honey. you’re in the wrong place. at best — once he softens up to you — you’ll get a part-time service dom. maybe. it’s not even that he doesn’t want to submit to you (though he doesn’t). it’s mostly that he wouldn’t remember how if he tried.

marvel rivals rocket

DOMS YOU: i’m still getting to know this rocket but it’s clear he likes variety, based on his dramatically-different looks. i suspect he’s got a major size-kink to go along with that tendency, too. it doesn’t matter that he’s smaller than you in stature: this rocket has at least fifteen different prosthetic cocks and about ten of them are too big for you to take without substantial prep. don’t worry, though: while rocket is not patient in most things, he makes exceptions for this. he loves sinking into you nice and slow while you’re all teared up and dripping, grinning maniacally against your damp skin and purring, “easy, sweetheart; biiiiiig stretch”

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket’s got super-soldier trauma too, but i think he’s also way better at being part of a team — which means he’s willing to take one for it, too. submitting to you is the equivalent of a trust-fall, and once you’ve had his back in battle, he’s willing to at least give it a shot. give him a playful flick to his earring and a smirk to let him know you’re in the mood to boss him around, and he’ll let you as long as it leads to multiple orgasms for both of you. as mentioned, he’s also a big fan of shaking things up, so feel free to try out all your new ideas, just as long as you’re communicating beforehand.

ewing/rosenberg/et al rocket

DOMS YOU: this rocket spent some time with a pretty little thing from the aceta system and learned all about traditional krylorian ropeplay. he loves tying you up with all sorts of deviously-positioned knots that tease your poor, delicious body every time you take a breath. then he just sits and drinks his angargal’s (neat) and watches you with a predatory grin and a few casual — if absolutely filthy — “compliments.” is it even edging if he’s not actually doing anything? he’s innocent, your honor! except that he might jerk off on you, just so he lasts longer when he finally gets inside you (plus there’s something about see you you helpless and dripping — with his fluids and yours — that makes him dangerously feral). he’s also a big fan of directing you on how to touch yourself — especially if he can make you edge or overstim your own body. it feels like the ultimate control to him.

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket loves cuddles, physical affection, and quality time — though he’ll never admit it. it’s on account of him being the loneliest flarkin’ guy in the universe, of course. he hadn’t remembered his past for circs — just a big ol’ hollow void in his history that he’d filled with persistent dread, raw nerves, and more cons and grifts than even he can recall. had his heart broke once or twice, and generally perceives himself as too much of a d’ast grizmod to be worthy of another person’s genuine love. and then he’d gotten his memories back… only to find out he’d been an authentic dumb-ass hero in a past life, before his former enemy had married his girl. it had really sent the message home: that nobody’s just gonna give him nice things. well. nobody until you. so cuddle this rocket up tight in your arms, and treat him oh-so-lovingly — spend late nights with him in the cockpit and listen to his stories — then stroke his tail while you ask him so sweetly to jack himself off. he’ll find himself doing whatever you say before he even realizes it. or — if you want to give him a real treat — make him promise not to move while you cockwarm him for an hour or two. make sure he knows that there will be no orgasms for cranky gunsmiths who can’t stay still. he’ll stare at you like you’re absurd for suggesting it — why the flark would he agree to something like that? — but after two minutes of you holding him snuggled tight inside you, he’ll start getting teary-eyed from the sheer emotional intimacy of it all.

skottie young rocket

DOMS YOU: by tying you up and overstimming you — again and again and again and again — with his tail and a dozen new toys he made himself. today. look, he’s gotta try ‘em out somehow, and you’re both his lucky muse and his favorite lil test-subject. loves to make you cry — but only for fun reasons. would absolutely arrange for another sub to wreck you under his direction, but only if you told him you’d be into it. he’s one-thousand percent a showman of the highest caliber and he’s gotta make sure everything’s over the top so he doesn’t disappear without ever being loved, which means he also doesn’t mind a full-fledged audience.

SUBS FOR YOU: if you’re looking for vulnerability with this rocket, you’re more likely to find it in unguarded moments of sexual intimacy that are remarkably vanilla. why? mostly just because it’s proof that he doesn’t always have to be the most outrageous thing in the galaxy to keep your attention. these are the moments when he’s heartwrenchingly soft, when he might explain to you how isolated he feels, how he’s searched high and low for “his own people” and has always been reminded that he’s the only thing like him in the universe; that he’s tried to fill the void with an endless parade of gender-variable space-princesses only to find that no-one ever made him feel less-alone — until you. but if you’re looking for submission… well. this rocket is the switchiest switch to ever switch. he has no issue subbing for someone with whom he expects to have fun, mostly because he doesn’t have to trust you to play sub for you. he’ll let you do pretty much whatever you want in the name of brat-taming, but the joke’s on you if you think he’s not capable of wresting back control the moment he wants it. for flark’s sake, he can get out of those electrocuffs in less than two seconds if he wants to — and he’ll never be done being a brat.